The Summer House
On the hill a cleft does rise,
A mount of valleys and distant highs,
The guarding trees from earth do grow,
Of the plains we often sow.
Down the road delved deep in side,
Do the clearings open wide,
Reveal a hidden source of spring,
That we do love to stay within,
The remnants of floods that are not done,
Shine beneath the jealous sun,
As we run in and underneath,
The water flows from the rocky teeth.
Wildflowers spread without fear,
In the meadow, broad and clear,
And we make their beds of buds bereft,
Before the summer has all but left.
Until next eve we wait in hope,
To see again the breathing slope,
A place of life and sun and blue,
But we must wait until the year is new.
© Copyright 2017 Bonnie Jackson. All rights reserved.
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